Blue Over Purple
by Frisky Wallabee
Summary: Because I have writer's block. Strange pairing. Rated for slashtastic, uh, ness that wouldn't be considered K.


**A/N: **written while trying to stave off writer's block…and a dizzy spell. And because I've been fascinated with gypsy!Snitch since I first thought of writing a vampire story long ago and having him be the font of gypsy, Romanian knowledge. And yes, this is one strange-ass pairing.

--

When he was little, he was always with his family. They would perform on the street, mystifying everyone who gathered to watch his sister's hips shake to her tambourine or his father and brother played the drums. His mother would play the flute and his grandparents—still lithe and limber—would toss his orphaned cousin back and forth like a little acrobat. The music would be purple if it were a color. Purple and roiling over the mesmerized crowds.

And while his family worked his magic, the aptly named Snitch worked his. The second he came from the womb, his father named him Snitch. Said he was going to be a prime thief. All he had to do was sneak through the crowds and pluck their billfolds and coins when they weren't looking. It was easy work and fun at that. He enjoyed the thrill of nicking something and the joy of keeping what he nicked. Sometimes he would even lie to his family just to keep his spoils. Not for riches but for pride. Each dime he snatched, each dollar he stuffed in his pocket was a badge of honor. A notch in his proverbial staff. He felt invincible.

--

When Snitch was eight, the invincibility began to crack starting from the death of his grandparents. But it wasn't that. It was due to blue. Blue to combat the purple of the music and to almost cease his heart.

While his family played, he did his magic. He served through the crowds, stepping nimbly through and nicking coins and billfolds wherever he saw them. He saw a boy his age jumping up and down to see the show. His parents were with him but made no effort to hold him up. The mother was holding onto a slightly older girl who was trying to mimic Snitch's sister Ezzie, shaking her hips in an almost comical fashion and biting her lip. The father held a tiny boy who couldn't have been more than three. But what caught Snitch's attention was the shiny quarter the boy had dropped amidst his jumping. Without thinking, he scooped it up.

He started to skirt away, weaving through the crush of people to make it back to his family.

"Hey!" a voice called. "That was mine!"

Snitch turned to be faced with the most brilliantly blue eyes he had ever seen. Above them were brows knit in anger and a head of dark curls that looked the same color as his own but when he raised his head so the sun hit them, they were chestnut brown. His arms—swathed in blue cotton—were folded tight over his chest and he was scowling.

"I's got not idea whachu talkin' 'bout," Snitch replied, crossing his own arms.

"You took my quarter!" the boy stomped his foot and stuck his hand out. "And I want it back."

"What if I's need your quarter 't eat?"

Much to his surprise, the boy smiled. "I think you'll be fine what with the other money you've got jangling in your pocket."

Snitch was surprised. The boy had outsmarted him.

"Wha's chur name?"

"What's yours?"

"Snitch."

He frowned and knit together his eyebrows again, pinching up his little face.

"Your real name."

"Is me real name. Papa named me that."

He blinked those big blue eyes. "Oh. I'm David."

Snitch stuck his hand out. "Hi, David."

David took it and when they separated, his quarter was back in his hand. Judging by the way his face lit up, Snitch would've parted with all the money in his pocket. But now he had to get away.

"Thanks," David beat him to it and was absorbed by the crowd.

Snitch watched him go, knowing he would forever love that boy.

--

"This is my brother, David. He's older," the little kid in the yellow shirt told Jack, staring up at him in full-blown, instant hero worship.

Snitch always perked when he heard the name David since the boy and his quarter those seven, long years ago. But it was never him. It was always someone else. Never the boy with the dark chestnut curls and the brilliant blue eyes that swamped his family's music. Swamped them to their deaths. All of them. But it wasn't music or the bright, bright blue that physically did it. It was lynchers. There to "exonerate the gypsy scum". Snitch had escaped…barely.

Now he perked up out of sheer habit…and this time, he paused. He saw the boy smart mouthing Jack and walked down the steps, carrying his papes but not really feeling them. He watched Jack make a deal with the boy with the dark chestnut curls and the big blue eyes that could drown out purple music.

"That's disgusting," he said.

And everyone—including Snitch—laughed. And then he left with Jack and a raw ache formed in his chest. Snitch had often planned what it would be like when the quarter love of his life returned. What would happen. Having him go off with Jack Kelly had never been factored in. He watched them take off and reached into Itey's pocket when the boy wasn't looking.

"Hey, Davey!" he called.

He turned and Snitch was faced with the full luminosity of his eyes. He hurried toward him and stuck his hand out.

"I's Snitch."

David—who seemed immensely relieved when he didn't spit in it—took his hand to shake it and when he pulled back, Itey's quarter was in his hand.

"Snitch…" his eyes clouded with memory.

"Come on, Davey," Jack tugged his arm. "We's got sellin' ta do."

Then he was gone. But he'd be back. He knew it. Snitch smiled to himself and thrust his arms up into the air, deciding to echo Specs's headline call for the day.

"BABY BORN WITH THREE HEADS!"


End file.
